Spring 2008

Table of Contents - Vol. VI, No. 1


Poetry    Interview    Translations    Fiction    Book Reviews

Wren Tuatha


Big Talking Rocks

I’m moving the muscles to breathe in
cold water. They feel like bone in the effort.

We had the same brand of toothpaste
on the night we didn’t speak of the
dimming between us.

Snow that doesn’t stay.

You would kiss me poetically
then pull a story out of me like a
magician’s scarf, red then yellow
through my throat.

I undressed to expose skin
printed with stories I should have
withheld, psychic tattoos with ink so
shiny you were afraid to

touch and be branded.

I’m moving the muscles to speak of
big talking rocks, monoliths like
grandmother trees, who have
stories in whispered radio waves

because they stayed.

They speak in hugging colors and
purring hum smiles because they
watched while mammoths, raccoons,
wrens and Americans

skittered in circles that never avoided
their fate. Their muscles made them do it
while big talking rocks wrote the
mythology of staying long enough

for restlessness to have its season.
I brought the brand of toothpaste
you use. I have enough for the season of

snow that sticks.


© Wren Tuatha



Poetry    Interview    Translations    Fiction    Book Reviews

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